And You Don't Care
by shortbroodygay
Summary: You're absolutely, every cliché in the book, every sappy love song, poem, and movie, head over heels in love with her. And she loves you. You know that. You doubted it in a fit of anger, but you know she loves you. She told you, and she meant it.


_Victoria_

B+. You got a B+. B+ photos don't get put up in Hamiltons. They don't get put up in Yossi Milo, or TORCH. You thought it was a great shot. You spent hours upon hours trying to get it right. To perfect it. And you thought you did. It turns out Mr. Jefferson didn't because he gave you a B+. He's supposed to be 'Mister Big Shot Photographer' he should know a good photo when he sees one.

Maybe he just got it wrong. Or he didn't look at it very closely, you know he's been kind of stressed lately with the whole contest thing going on. You'll just stop by his room and ask him about it, he'll obviously correct himself. Of course this was just an error on his part.

You ignore the voice in the back of your mind telling you that no, it wasn't an error. You're just a terrible photographer. You're a joke, and no one will ever take your work seriously.

There we go. You'll get this all settled, and move on with your day. You have a date with Max later and you want to have time to get a manicure.

You grab your bag, phone, and your photo as you make your way outside. There's a light breeze and goosebumps rise on your arms. It's your favorite kind of weather, and the walk to the main building seems too short.

The hallways aren't as crowded as they were earlier in the day. A few people try to grab your attention as you walk by. They look up to you as a role model and you don't know why. You're a bitch. You always go out of your way to be rude to people, yet they respect you as if you're their goddess.

You see that Mr. Jefferson's classroom door is ajar, you lift your hand to knock but stop halfway there.

"Honestly Max. You did a spectacular job. The only A+ in the class. You should feel honored."

"But sir, I… I don't feel like I really earned-" You barely register her voice and you're seeing red.

You charge into the room, seething with rage and resentment. "Just what the HELL is going on here!?" You've haven't felt this angry in a long time.

"Woah woah, Victoria please keep your voice down. We're indoors. I was just congratulating Max here on-" Jefferson starts, but you interrupt him.

"On her A+? Yeah I heard. I'm glad someone got the grade they deserved." You feel your eyes start to sting, and you spin on your heel, taking long strides to get out of there without causing more of a scene than you already have.

This time the walk back to the dorms seems too long. You want to be inside. You want to change into sweatpants and a bit t-shirt and cry. You walk even faster as you feel the tears you've been trying to hold in, fall down your cheeks. You tilt your head down to shield yourself from the looks people are giving you as you almost run into the dorms.

You pass by Taylor and Courtney, and you can't even hear their questions over your own thoughts. The word "pathetic" echoes in your mind like a chant, over and over again.

You slam the door to your dorm room shut behind you, not bothering to lock it. Those two phonies will know better than to come in after seeing that. They may be dumber than stumps, but they know when not to fuck with you.

You throw all your things on the ground and curl up in a ball on your bed. The tears flow freely from your eyes, and you're choking on your sobs. Why would she do that to you? She told you she loves you. You love her. How could she go and betray you like that? You worked so hard, and she knew that. Yet she still went and got an A+. So much for loving you. Did She even mean it? You meant it. You wish you could take it back now, knowing what she did to you. She doesn't deserve your love.

You're angry once again. You stand up too fast, your legs not wanting to carry your weight, but you push through. A loud yell rips its way through your throat and your left fist connects with the wall. You don't feel the pain but you see the damage. There's a good-sized hole where your fist once was, and you don't care. You just don't care.

You walk to your mirror and look at yourself. The word "pathetic" is louder now. It's repeating over and over and over, getting louder by the second. The crescendo grows to be unbearable and you swing again. This time, you watch it happen, it feels like slow motion. You see your closed fist connect with the glass, the glass shattering right where your face is in your reflection, the bits of glass lodging into your knuckles and hand. The series of events unfolds right in front of you.

You cry out again, this time, in pain. God damn that hurt. The blood runs down your hand to your wrist, and drips on the floor. You'll deal with it later. You throw yourself down onto your bed, probably smearing blood all over the blankets. But once again, you don't care. You're already pathetic.

You don't know how long you've been lying there crying, but you know it hasn't been that long. You hear your phone go off at least 6 times. Probably Taylor or Courtney. You doubt it's Max. She's probably out celebrating with that blue haired rapscallion. The thought makes the tears come again.

Your sobs come in loud bursts into your pillow. You're pathetic. You'll never get any of your photos in a good gallery. Your parents already know you're a failure, this further proves it. And Max. Another sob. Oh god, Max. You love her so much. You're definitely not going on that date tonight, that's for damn sure. She probably planned this. Watch you struggle for so long to get the shot, listen to how happy you were when you finally got it, plan a date so she could get your hopes up just to crush them. But she knew all along. She knew your photo was pathetic because that's what you are.

Your phone goes off. Once, twice, three, four times in a row. You debate smashing it with your hand but your head is the tiniest bit clearer than it was earlier, so you decide against it. It goes off for a fifth time and you hit ignore. You are not in the mood or mental capacity to deal with anyone.

You continue to cry at that thought. You just want everyone to leave you alone. You are so sick of everyone trying to talk to you all the time. There's three staccato knocks at the door. "Go." Your voice is so weak it barely comes out as a whisper. "Go away." It falters at the end. You sound so pathetic, it's sickening. Another sob breaks out of your mouth and you bury your face back into the safety of your pillow.

"Victoria?" The voice is soft and gentle, it almost makes you feel calm. Almost. You'd recognize that voice anywhere, and it makes you furious.

You shoot up out of bed and throw the door open. Her face is right there, inches away from yours. "What the fuck do you want, Caulfield?" You spit out. Her name tastes foul on your tongue.

Her faces goes from soft and worried to scared and confused in a matter of seconds. Either way it doesn't matter to you, because she looks like home. But you aren't having any of it. You probably look like the word pathetic was personified, and you are fully aware of it.

"What happened back there? Why are you so upset? Are you okay? You're crying, and what- Oh god, what happened to your hand? We need to get some banda-" She's talking so fast you can't comprehend anything until she grabs your hand. It's very gentle, but it still stings like a bitch.

You flinch away from her touch out of pain and distrust. "Don't touch me." Your eyes are narrowed at her and you take a cautious step back. There's alarms going off in your head telling you not to trust her, she's dangerous.

Her brow furrows as she looks at you. "What is going on Victoria? I can't touch you? Why did you freak out earlier in Jefferson's room?" Her voice is increasing in volume, she's almost as angry as you.

"Don't play stupid with me, Max. You know exactly what's going on! You know what you did, so own up to it!" I yell back at her.

We both seem to notice at the same time that the door is still open, and she hasn't moved from the frame. She takes a step into your room, and you don't want to let her in, but your feeling of not wanting any more attention drawn to you overrules it. You step aside as she slams the door behind her for dramatic effect.

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about! You throw yourself into the room yelling and waving your arms around like a crazy person, and then run off! What happened!?" Her eyes are wide and her face is tense.

Did she really just call you crazy? "You're calling me crazy!? You told me that you loved me, then you went off and pretended to care about me, and, and you GOT A FUCKING A+ ON YOUR PHOTO AND YOU KNEW MINE WASN'T AS GOOD AS YOURS!" Your chest is heaving and the air around you seems too thin.

If she didn't look angry before, she sure as hell does now. "IS THAT REALLY WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT!? MY FUCKNG PHOTO?" She pulls out her A+ photo. "THIS IS SO STUPID!" She holds the photo up and rips it in half.

"Why the hell did you do that?" Your voice is low and steady now. "That was your A+ photo. You're such a _gifted student_." You spit out at her.

"It doesn't matter! It's just a stupid photo! You had a fantastic photo, why are you yelling at me about mine!?" Her hands fly up in the air.

Why is she acting like she doesn't know why I'm mad? She did this, she should know. "I GOT A B+ ON MY PHOTO AND YOU KNOW HOW HARD I WORKED ON IT, AND YOU JUST STOOD THERE AND WATCHED ME TRY SO HARD TO GET THE SHOT. BUT YOU KNEW IT WOULDN'T BE AS GOOD AS YOUR _SELFIE_!"

"DO YOU THINK I PLANNED THIS? WHY WOULD I DO THAT? THAT MAKES LITERALLY NO SENSE! THINK ABOUT THIS!" Her fingers tangle themselves in her hair and she sighs, exasperated.

"Yes of course I think you planned it! Why else would you tell me that you love me?" Your voice cracks on the last word and the tears come again, full force.

Her hands drop back to her sides and her gaze is soft. "Do you really think that I would do that to you?"

Your brain registers her words and you feel the gears in your head shift, at an agonizingly slow pace. "No." Your voice sounds so small. Smaller than it's ever been. You sound so quiet, so fragile. But overall the thing you felt most was vulnerable. You're not used to being vulnerable around anyone. No one needs to see you like this. But for some reason you let her, Max fucking Caulfield, in. And you know why. You've known for a while why you always seem to let her, and no one else in. Hell, you've even told her. You love her. You're absolutely, every cliché in the book, every sappy love song, poem, and movie, head over heels in love with her. And she loves you. You know that. You doubted it in a fit of anger, but you know she loves you. She told you, and she meant it. And you did what you always do best. Lash out. Lash out at everyone who's ever given you a chance.

She takes a cautious step towards you, and this time you don't take a step back. You both have tears running down your faces, and the tension is so thick in the air, you could cut it with a knife.

You two seem to get the same idea, you don't want this to be as awkward as it feels now. You crash into each other's embrace, never wanting to let go. Your arms are around her neck, holding on for dear life while hers are holding you around your waist with a death grip so hard it could bruise. But you don't care. Because you two are so in love. So in love, it hurts.

Later on, after you've both said your apologies and bandaged your hand, you two lie in your bed. She's laying flat on her back, your bodies flush together as you lay your head on her chest. Her hand is stroking your hair, and yours is drawing lazy circles on her arm with your thumb. You've never felt more content as you whisper the words "I love you so much" into her skin.

 _Present day_

You hold that picture in your hand. You believe this picture should be framed in every museum and gallery throughout the world. Jefferson was right when he gave Max's photo an A+. She truly deserves it.

Your finger traces across the tape on the back. When she ripped it that day, you knew you couldn't leave it like that. You'd handled it with the utmost care then, and you do the same now. It's your most prized possession. You'd spent at least an hour trying to tape it back together. It was hard to get it to look like nothing happened to it, but you did your best.

Your hands shake as you bring the photo to your chest. You don't move, or say anything; just hold it to your chest. You don't cry. You actually can't cry. You've drained yourself of all your tears over the past three months.

Three months. It's been that long since you last got to see her. To touch her. You hold in your hands the last photo she ever took. Well, the last photo she took since she left. You don't know where she went, or why. But you know that someday you'll see her again. But for now, you'll just have to see her through this photo. And you do care.


End file.
